Broken Bonds Boxed Set 1-3 (2 page)

B
lood calls to me
.

There’s a story in every drop. A song in the spray pattern. A flickering movie reel projecting images in slow motion—life—as it oozes its last drip. If you look beyond the violence, past the gruesome, a kind of poetry unfolds. Its rhyme and rhythm is what reaches out to me, and its what I use to find you.

“Bonds.” The gruff voice gains my attention, breaking my connection to the killer. I look up from the bloody crime scene to see Detective Quinn. He nods toward a shuttered bank of windows. “Might have a print.”

Unlikely, but I step around the dead woman and blood-soaked carpet, my clompy sneakers wrapped in shoe covers, to meet him. I don’t like being disturbed when I’m putting myself in the scene, and he knows it. “You do your job, Quinn, and let me do mine,” I say, nodding back toward the victim. “Why else did you call me here?”

His dark eyebrows furrow, weathered eyes crease at their corners, hinting to the many years he’s spent investigating scenes just like this. “I didn’t.” Turning toward the shades, he places a yellow marker next to a smudge. “An hour ago, I told Wexler this was a domestic. The boyfriend called it in and then did a disappearing act. But Boss Man insisted I bring you in. Cover all the bases.” Looking at me, he frowns. “So here you are. Just thought steering you in the right direction would help speed this up. But do your thing, psycho analyst, so that I can get on with making my case.”

I catch the tip of my tongue between my teeth to keep from lashing out a snide retort, and instead give him a tight smile. Stuffing my hands into my jean jacket pockets, I turn and stare at the scene once again. I stopped taking offense to how the detectives—the
real
case solvers—view behavioral analysts. Or profilers, though that term is likely to garner even more mockery. It doesn’t bother me because, as much as Quinn has given me a hard time over the years, he depends on my insight. And he knows it.

Just won’t ever admit to it. Not in front of his uniforms.

And because I can easily sum up his hesitancy and anger to macho male aggression and being the product of a single parent who put too much pressure on him…I give him some slack. There are other factors, too, in why he’s such a dick, but his profile is actually pretty boring.

Right. Boring. Nothing like the passionate scene here displayed in red and domination. Which has me seriously doubting Quinn’s judgment call on the boyfriend.

I take a couple of deep breaths, then move through the bedroom, letting my gaze roam and snag on the details. I try to block out the unis marking evidence and snapping pictures. Push everyone and everything out of the room except the victim and her attacker.

Blood is pooled around the vic’s head and torso. The fatal wound a deep laceration to her throat. Inadvertently, my hand goes to my own chest, my fingers applying a slight pressure to my collarbone.

She’s been positioned on her stomach. Dress ruched up past her hips. Ankles bound together with rope, knees spread, placing her in a prime, demeaning position for the offender. One can only assume she was raped until the M.E. examines her fully, but everything about the way the perpetrator posed her indicates that this was a sex crime.

No gun. At least, the perpetrator didn’t use one to end her life. No bullet holes or neighbors complaining about noise. But the uniforms haven’t completely canvassed the apartment complex yet. Murder weapon could be from her own kitchen. Although, with how meticulously staged this scene is, I doubt it. I’m almost certain he brought his own rape kit. Still, we need to discover if anything’s missing or out of place.

No discernable stab wounds. No angry, sloppy slashes or strikes signifying she knew the offender personally. And no castoff bloodstains from the weapon indicates he killed her slowly, precisely. He wasn’t enraged; he took his time.

And he knew how to kill. Her carotid is perfectly severed. The arterial spray reached the ceiling—and no transfer stains, no castoff, suggests he wasn’t surprised by the amount of blood. Rather, I presume he enjoyed it, and he worked to get this desired effect.

The torture he inflicted—battered face and body; hours of restraint; burns to the thighs—signifies measured and controlled. Intended to heighten her suffering, not kill her quickly.

The possibility of this being a revenge-motivated kill decreases by the second.

She’s wearing an evening gown. Black. Elegant. Yet no makeup. The perpetrator could’ve interrupted her while she was getting ready for a Friday night out, but being a woman myself, I have to make an assumption on this one. Makeup first, then hair. Dress last. And her hair, though having been handled roughly during the attack, doesn’t look like it was styled recently.

No jewelry, either.

I walk toward the open closet and peer inside. Then back around the room. No shoes have been removed. No heels kicked off anywhere. She wasn’t planning a night out. I head toward the corner of her room where a robe has been discarded. After slipping on gloves, I adjust my holstered SIG and kneel down to lift the seam of the garment. A T-shirt and underwear lay beneath.

My eyes flick back to the closet, and I note the gap in the row, where clothes hangers have been pushed aside.

Standing, I shake my head. What method of coercion did the assailant use to force her into changing into a dress? What’s more,
why
?

“We got the boyfriend,” one of the uniforms announces. “They’re taking him to the station.”

Quinn nods to the cop and looks over at me. “I’m going in to question him. You want to watch?” He pushes his gray coat sleeves back as he starts to remove his gloves.

I look at the shuttered windows again, to where Quinn found his first clue. Maybe mine, too. “The perpetrator most likely did close the blinds. Although I seriously doubt you’ll find his print, he wanted some privacy. He needed enough time to play out his fantasy. And somehow, he knew he had that time.” Could’ve been opportunity, or he may have been stalking her, or maybe he
did
know her. I tilt my head, imagining myself laying in wait. Watching her. There were no signs of forced entry. “Find out about the boyfriend’s porn collection.”

Quinn scoffs. “Real original,” he mumbles. “Bondage, I assume?”

Exhaling heavily, I clarify, “Find out if he’s prone to voyeurism. If he likes to watch or be watched, Quinn.” I nod to the blinds. “There’s more to a killer’s porn than bondage.” I glare at him, keeping my own suspicions about
his
porn collection to myself.

As he wraps up his instructions with CSU, I move toward the vic. It’s not my job to put myself in her place; I’m here to identify with her killer. Get inside his head and break him down. That’s the only thing I can do to help her now.

I reach for her fisted hand tucked closely to her chin along the white carpet. It’s next to her lips, as if she’s stifling her last scream. Ligature marks wrap her wrist in red, puffy welts. But unlike her ankles, the binding device has been removed. Time of death was determined to be just a couple of hours ago. No rigor, and her skin is dry.

How many hours did he play? How long did he torture her? The dress, with all my speculations, doesn’t really point to a clear time of entry. I look over her exposed skin, studying the shades of bruising, trying to determine a better timeline based on the facts.

I uncurl her fingers.

Red stains their tips. My forehead scrunches as I move in closer. A flutter hits my chest, stealing my breath. Puncture wounds dot her fingertips just beneath her nails. One nail has been torn off, and the nail bed is ripped from an object being inserted.

Recognition smacks me hard and fast. But I push past the similarity, noting the high unlikeliness of a connection. During my training, I spent far too many years investigating my own obsessions.

I look up at Quinn as he’s leaving the room. “Better yet, Quinn,” I say, nodding to her hand. “Try to get a warrant for his computer to access all his porno while you’re at it.”

“That’s going to be a bitch to get,” he says on an exhale. “Unless you got something solid to tie this to the boyfriend.” Quinn adjusts his blue tie before running a hand through his close-cropped, salt and pepper hair. “Defensive wounds?”

Shaking my head, I say, “No. Whoever our UNSUB is, he likes his torture techniques.”

I see it as soon as frustration crosses his face; this case just got a whole lot more complicated.

“
I
’m assuming
the needle job on the vic’s nails wasn’t to treat smashed fingers,” Quinn says. He props his shoulder against the doorjamb of my small office, his leanly muscled arms defined well against his standard white button-up.

Shrugging, I say, “He could’ve first wounded her hands, then treated them. Maybe a nurse or even a doctor playing out a husband-wife fantasy.” I reconsider. “Could even be a doctor-patient fantasy.”

Quinn groans. “See, that’s why this shit will never be a science, Bonds. You just jump around, grabbing at randomness, hoping to nail down a perp.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Really? Did you just say perp and make a pun on the nails?” I refuse to take his bait. When I first met Detective Quinn on assignment two years ago, it was my first high-profile case. We did this song and dance then; I know his opinion on criminal profiling. And I also know that it was the combined effort of both the Arlington County PD and the Virginia State General Investigation Section that brought in the offender.

This man is very territorial, though. He won’t acknowledge outside help, but at least he isn’t so stubborn that he down right refuses to take it.

Then there’s also the thing where he doesn’t trust my reasons for requesting a transfer to ACPD—not when I was in line to be promoted within the Fairfax field office to the BCI (Bureau of Criminal Investigations).

I see it in his eyes, even now; he thinks I fucked up somehow. That I was demoted and my blunder buried by bureaucratic bullshit. But I’m not so special that I’d warrant that kind of elite treatment. I have no friends in high enough places to pull something like that off. But from Quinn’s perspective, why else would a person in my field willingly stray from the path that leads to the FBI?

But those reasons border on my personal life…and they’re none of his damn business.

His hazel eyes narrow. “I saw your face when you noticed the fingers. You know something. Something that’s not head shrinking or total bullshit guesswork.” He steps into my office and sits down in the chair across from my piled-high desk. Loosening his cross-shoulder gun harness, he says, “Spit it out.”

“I’m offended you think your time is more valuable than mine.” Just because I’m used to the scorn of the department, doesn’t mean I’m a pushover. Sighing, I settle into my chair, deciding I’m too drained to battle this argument. Again.

One thing about Quinn: he keeps my guard up. I never have time to relax into my job. As if that would even be possible. But it’s now been seven months with the ACPD, and it’s like I just started yesterday.

“It might be going way out on a limb,” I begin. “And I’d rather wait to hear back from the M.E. first. See what object was used. Needle, syringe, nail, some other kind of tool.”

Pressing his lips together tightly, Quinn adopts an impatient countenance.

“You’re cranky, you know that?” I glare at him. “Maybe you need more fiber in your diet.”
Or your ass needs to get laid
. But I also keep that to myself. I need to take it easy on the guy; his wife did just leave him a few months back. Just one of the many
perks
of our job: romantic relationships rarely make it.

“Yeah? Well you need to start dressing like the job you want, instead of the one you have.” He makes a face. “Wait. You actually
do
need to start dressing for the damn job you have. I’m sick of having to convince officers at my crime scenes that you’re not some teenager.” He looks over my baggy jean jacket and even baggier jeans. The frumpy, untucked T-shirt I’ve had since college.

“My choice of style really can’t bother you,” I say. But in truth, I know it does. Quinn is a neat freak. And what’s more, he’s all about order. On the job and off.

“Lack of style, you mean. Just saying, Bonds.” He shrugs. “You’re never going to get the Bureau to look your way dressing like some rookie.”

I roll my eyes. “Can we chill on the clichés for today?”

But his eyes nail me with a serious, insightful glare. “The quicker you apply, the faster I get you and your analytic bullshit out of my department. And I know you want to. Who goes into your field and doesn’t want the FBI? So what’s the hold-up?”

And…here we go again. A slight pressure builds between my eyes. I press the tips of my fingers against the ache. “I’d miss this too much. It’s so gratifying working with detectives who not only put my work into question, but my wardrobe, too.” I mock smile. “Now. Get off the FBI trip,” I tell him. And he really should, because I’ve been over it for a while.

“All right,” he says. “Just remember, you’re already twenty-six, and you’re not getting any younger.”

Thanks
. “I’ll keep that in mind.” Moistening my lips, I shift forward and move this convo back on topic. “Medieval torture,” I say, and he tilts his head. “I’m not saying it is…but you asked. They used to insert needles, sometimes heated, under the nail beds. Sometimes it was punishment for sloppy needlework, other times a way to extract information from the person. An admittance to a crime. And sometimes it was just to be cruel.”

His tongue pokes at his cheek as he considers this. “Guess I’ll go brush up on my medieval history.” He goes to stand, but pauses. “You’re thinking the boyfriend has a history of violence. That this isn’t his first victim.”

“You don’t want to hear what I think.” Averting my gaze, I look down at my paperwork. “It’s all just conjecture, anyway, until I get some facts. Like whether she was sexually assaulted.”

“Humor me,” he says.

Huffing, I glance up at him. We’ve done this so many times before. “I’m thinking that this is premeditated murder. The work of a sadist. And I’m thinking that the boyfriend might be innocent. At least, of this.”